10-Pin
by glendoflump
Summary: Game Grumps fanfic - I felt a sudden need to write a Dan Avidan/Reader fic in a Bowling Alley!AU. You need the money to afford a set of wheels, so take a vacancy at a local bowling alley called The Alley. You had anticipated impatient patriotic customers and a perpetual explosion of kid's birthday parties, but you couldn't have anticipated the dude with the shoes.
1. Chapter 1

You had been staring at the shoe guy for what felt like a creepily long time now, but he still hadn't noticed. You were currently being yelled at by an unfairly rude man who kept jabbing his sweaty finger at THAT blue, red and white striped (God bless America) factory finish 4000 grit bowling ball, not the white, red and blue striped factory finish 3500 grit bowling ball that sat, deeply ashamed, in it's glass cabinet, knowing it would never satisfy the 7th fat old man you had been too busy staring at the shoe guy to even give a second to. You had decided to mentally document his features for future generations, because future generations needed to know about the shoe guy and the way he smiled - like a scarecrow from a kid's book, all big laughs and crooked grins at dumb jokes. You stuck to your counter, only a few meters of distasteful fizzy-drink-sticky carpet between you and him, as he stood diligently stacking aeons-old bowling shoes into neat rows, his head turned to a co-worker and his mouth split open, barks of laughter leaping out and across the room, tugging your mouth into a small smile.

pYou had been watching him all day, catching glimpses of dark eyes and dark curls between dusty wooden shelves and slushy machines. You were not normally so fixated, but when you worked in a place as marketable-family-fun-a-third-off-all-birthday-parties as The Alley, you tried to cling on to the tiniest shred of salvation you could find in the perpetually sticky half-deflated ball-pit of a workday.

"HEY. HEY YOU, NEWBIE."

You had been working as an Executive Equipment Sales(wo)man for a few months now, yet to all but no one, you were still not so affectionately referred to as "Newbie". Your boss, Mr Wilson, was notorious for establishing eye contact and maintaining it for as long as humanly possible while causing the most discomfort possible, and he certainly didn't fail now. With an excellent display of fear-inducing maintained eye contact, he grabbed the microphone in the glass tannoy box to once again humiliate you, as he so enjoyed doing. Everyone turned to face him. The box was a fast food place and a shoe guy away from you, and his voice boomed with migraine-inducing resonance over the royalty-free elevator music you found yourself humming off-hours on numerous infuriating occasions.

"REPORT TO MY OFFICE-" A painful and nausea-inducing squeal of feedback rung through The Alley - he slammed the microphone with his palm, only making it worse. He attempted to speak into the mic again, but the projected voice warbled and fitzed into jumpy screeches of voice and static.

"JUST G-ET I-NH-EREEEEeeee!"

You took a deep breath and curled your bottom lip up. Stepping out from behind the your counter, you held your shoulders high and balled your fists in an attempt to seem coolly nonchalant, like some kind of 1940's detective reporting to his deputy because he'd figured out whodunnit - only to crash and burn like a flammable thing on a collision course with the ground when you suddenly felt shoe guy's eyes on you as rounded your death march past his counter. You weren't sure whether to look at him or near him or even to avoid looking at him at all - a coolly nonchalant 1940's detective would stroll over and lean on the counter, place a cigarette between his teeth and light it - then probably shine a light in his face and say "I KNOW IT WAS YOU" and then throw a chair or something. You decided that approach probably wouldn't scream "I think you have a nice smile and food maybe?" Just as soon as he had looked up, you caught him turn his head away in your peripheral vision, responding to something his co-worker had said with an indiscreet nod in your direction.

You balled your fists tighter and kept walking.

(~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~)

After an almost collision with a flushed looking lady squeezed into a sequin shift dress (and holding more drinks than you believed was legally safe) you arrived at the glass gates of Hell. You took a deep breath and repressed the urge to quietly pep talk yourself - Mr Wilson was undoubtedly the most strangely intense man you had ever met, as was clear when you knocked on the door to his Business Office/Tannoy box and slowly pushed it open. He held himself high, one leg propped up on his desk chair like some kind of conqueror, staring thoughtfully out onto his neatly-bordered-bowling-pin domain through his window. The man had a deeply emotional passion for bowling in a way that was both upsetting and strangely inspiring. His hair looked as taxidermied as ever, and his ensemble packed a punch with several different exciting shades of beige.

"Ah! You've arrived! Welcome to my humble abode!"

He gestured more widely than you thought was possible in such a cramped room. You twisted your fingers together behind your back - a nervous habit - and braced yourself for the emotional fallout of figuring out how on God's green earth you were fired from a job that a baby could manage efficiently. What if you never saw shoe guy again?

"I've got some great news for you, newbie!" You returned the blazing eye contact Mr Wilson had been making since you stepped in while some strange deflated form of hope grew in the pit of your stomach - kind of like being relieved at having dodged a bullet and then it ricocheting. Repeatedly. "A recent employee decided that he was not worthy of employment in this fine establishment-" He swept a finger accusingly across a mostly empty trophy shelf - a small plume of dust rose into the recycled air. "-And there is an employment opportunity in the textiles department! You'd work longer hours, but that's nothing you can't handle, right? - Plus, you can't argue with a $5 raise..."

It is safe to say I could not argue with a $5 raise. You decided an external reply was probably needed.

"Uh, yeah, okay."

He smiled like a reflection in a fun-house mirror. "That's what I like to hear! You start-" His voice slowly trailed off, his eyes wide with shock and suddenly drawn to something behind you. "Uhh, you start now! Yep, right now!"

"Wait, wha-" He swooped around his tiny desk and began to usher you quickly out the door.

"On your way, lets go, we'll iron out the details later!" His voice was almost a harsh whisper now as he shoved you past his door and hid bravely behind it.

You turned to the row of counters and suddenly saw what he was so shocked about - a dude in his late twenties was barking at shoe guy (You suddenly felt very protective over him for a guy you'd never even spoken to) and was red-faced with fury. He swivelled and caught Mr Wilson as he ducked behind his door. "YOU!" He boomed, striding over to the Business Office/Tannoy box. You quickly dived out the way, avoiding eye contact and walking swiftly in any direction that registered as AWAY. You did not want in on whatever mess Mr Wilson had landed himself in. In then registered that you had no idea what the "Textiles department" was, or that The Alley even had one.

Bewildered, you turned just in time to see an object of indeterminable size sail through the air, reaching Mach 5 before being cut short by the sudden obstacle of your head. Another yell from your left and a sharp intake of air, and you were down like a felled tree.


	2. Chapter 2

They say (and by they, I mean fancy white-lab-coat science people with big glasses and pocket protectors and a constant supply of Erlenmeyer flasks just for holding) that the first thing you notice after regaining consciousness is sound.

"Dude, she's _ fine _. Don't be such an anxious annie, jeez."

(You vaguely recognise the voice, a voice that rose loud in laughter and a whole lot of yelling across from the confining wooden panels of your booth.)

The second thing you notice after regaining consciousness holds much greater significance. You see light for the first time.

(A face with dark eyes and even darker hair.)

"Oh yes, of course, _she's totally fine , _ I should've known from the whole _going-unconcious-thing! _"

"Well, someone's got their sassy pants on today!"

"DUDE! SHE FELL UNCONSIOUS! SHE_ LITERALLY LEFT THIS PLAIN OF EXSISTENCE! _DOES THAT NOT STRIKE YOU AS EVEN SLIGHTLY WORRYING?"

"WELL _ EXCUUUUUUSE ME _-"

You began to fear that if the possible head trauma you were suffering from didn't kill you where you lay, the venomous sass in the air would.

Your voice sheepishly climbed back up your throat from its hiding place, words tumbling from your mouth like an upturned scrabble board.

"Hey, look, I'm fine!" The voice that emerged was croaky and harsh, unfamiliar - you waved your hand in the air as if to say _Yeah hey okay I actually am alive!_

Your vision slowly began to reset and the perpetual fuzz fades to a watery blur. You can just about make out two guys in front of you - One, standing and arms crossed, clad in the sickly but slightly comforting bright orange spots and pale blue of the _Official Employee Success-Inducing Uniform_ of The Alley. His face is still a little out of focus, but the streak of blonde against the deep brown of his hair is pretty noticeable, even after the whole skipping-out-on-being-conscious shebang. The owner of the blonde streaks and the grumpy barks was undoubtedly familiar – you'd had no choice in hearing the endless stream of dick jokes and admirable puns he'd practically yelled from the Kingdom of Old Gross Used Bowling Shoes. Listening to him now, fiercely argue with the face that still remained frustratingly out of vision, you notice a strange soothing quality to his voice – rough, sure, but with a kind of rare refinement and deep tone that reminded you of the booming timbres in film trailers, tinged with explosions and gun fire.

It's then, while squinting your eyes at the grumpy dude with the blonde streak in attempt to make out any of his features, you notice a light but sturdy grip on your shoulder, warmth pushing through through the threads of your uniform and sparking on your chill skin.

And you suddenly plummet back into your body as if from the pinnacle of some impossibly high (and nausea-inducing) funfair ride - everything else before was just the steep, painfully slow climb and now, _now _, you'd finally reached the top and the fall and you _weren't alone._

A face peers down from your left, cautious and curious, and you feel a blush spread unwillingly across your slightly numb face, causing your eyes to widen rather dramatically. (you internally kick yourself for blushing – you're pretty sure you're not some rose-tinged period-drama fragile flower waiting for her love to save her)

"Dude, woah, you okay?"

You looked up (ignoring the intense protest of probably the smarter of your brain) and found it pretty impossible to look in any other direction.

A few seconds of intense Mr-Wilson-style staring felt like several long stubborn years - the new data flooding into your brain had decided it too wanted to stop and look at the slightly puzzled face peering down at you, resulting in several traffic jams around your cerebrum. Only a few words had thought to use the much quicker but increasingly dimmer side lanes. These words were:

curly hair (lots wow)

stubble yes uh

eyebrow scar(?)

As well as multitudes of question marks.

"Ah, dude, she's not answering, WHAT DO I DO?!"

Shoe guy now had a voice to fit with the scarecrow smile, and _holy wow _did it fit - a little scratchy when competing with stubborn laughter - like a record competing with a few nicks, but with a sweet melody and intonation and pace - slow like ripples and lazy rain down windows.

You find yourself picturing him sing, muscles moving and winding, long low notes spiralling and settling into some sweet deep place between your ribs.

"Well, first, you might wanna help her up before she spews on the carpet..." The other voice, the grumpy guy.

A hand slips into yours, hesitant but grounding.

You take a solemn vow, by all that is holy and good on this small orbiting mass in the middle of the infinite pinball machine some dude called the Cosmos, that you would not throw up.

This would be a much easier solemn vow to make if only the carpet beneath you would stop endlessly spinning like some kind of sick fairground ride.

You clung to the solidarity of long fingers and even breaths and began to stumble in an upwards fashion, pushing feeling back into numb feet.

"See, she's fine, dude! Fine and dandy! Look at the sheer strength in her...arms. What a trooper. What a damn trooper." The rattle of liquid bouncing up a straw. You could practically hear Shoe Guy's eye roll, coupled with a stubborn little smile that kickstarted your heart into a higher gear which you didn't particularly enjoy because you really did think you were going to throw up.

You were almost righted, perhaps a little off-kilter and colour but still mostly functioning. The nausea ever-so-slowly began to fade to a weak ache, causing you to reach a cautious hand to your forehead to assess the damage, half expecting to find an ominous bowling ball shaped dent. Instead you find a bump (surprise surprise!) slowly beginning to form, coupled with a small cut.

You exhale through your teeth as a finger brushes it – and catch the concerned (and extraordinarily guilty) eyes of Shoe Guy. A little blood glistens on a fingertip, nothing too death inducing. Just swell.

In a somewhat upright position (like a tray-table with a truly inordinate amount of varied food wrappers stuffed in it) you are stricken by Shoe Guy's height – he must be, what, 6ft something? Either the world was still spinning and you'd just gotten used to it or Shoe Guy was the height of a small block of flats. Probably the lesser. Definitely the lesser.

"Hey. I'm Arin." He pointed at his name badge proudly, then the click of a finger gun followed by another straw rattle, strangely loud. (Now streak-guy had a name, being shoved to the back of the queue for your highly desirable long term memory, being handed a ticket number. Probably 100-something. The threat of imminent brain malfunction was real.)

Silence.

A somehow offended-sounding gasp, followed by the motherly placing of hands on hips, still holding his drink in one hand.

"You should apologise right this instance, _mister!_"

You liked Arin. He was a goof.

A _screwed-eyes-hardy-har_ kind of look from Shoe Guy's side of the ring. An _evil-eyebrows-arin-wins _kind of look from the opposing side.

"Uh, yeah, dude, I am seriously so sorry. Like, I didn't see you and if I had I definitely would've ...not...hit you..." His right hand extended to the back of his neck halfway through his apology - eyebrows down above a small smile - in a painfully guilty fashion.

You found it fiercely cute. Like, run-into-the-mountains-and-scream-into-the-endless -wilderness cute.

Your voice decided to once again make an appearance, having previously been under maintenance in your throat (new and improved, with added cool witty comebacks! Get yours today!) and managed to form words. Solid evidence of the marvels of the human body, considering the day you'd had.

"It's cool, just a minor case of major brain damage! Nothing a varied diet can't fix!" You practically spewed sarcasm.

You look down to the floor to counteract another flood of nausea – only to find the weapon of your almost-murder. A black shape, worn leather partly sheathed in silver metal, vaguely shiny in the dim overhead light.

You had really had a long day.

"A BOOT. A METAL TIPPED BOOT. YOU HIT ME. A PERSON. WITH A GODDAMN METAL TIPPED BOOT?!"

Shoe Guy held a finger up to answer, mouth open-

"A METAL TIPPED GODDAMN BOOT?! WHERE DID YOU EVEN FIND IT, I MEAN, WHAT!? DO YOU JUST HAVE THEM LYING AROUND?!"

You , weakness forgotten in the burst of hard fierce adrenaline, while Arin chuckled into his straw like a kid watching his sibling getting scolded and loving every minute of it.

"I really am sorr-"

"AND ANOTHER THING-"

You reach your hand up to flourish it wildly in the air only to find a forgotten weight still lay in it. His hand, Shoe Guy's hand, held in place by yours, as innocuous and natural as a viral cat video.

Oh boy.

You caught Shoe Guy's eyes, the nausea plummeting back as you suddenly felt more like the deer in the headlights than the one behind the wheel.

Arin continued to snort into his drink.

You pulled your hand away in a swift contraction and chuckled awkwardly into the floor, raring and ready to just shrug and let the rarely-cleaned floors (truly iconic of The Alley) swallow and digest you.

You blush like a bonfire has been lit beneath you. Your consciousness salutes you for a final time and jumps into a shark tank.

Shoe Guy laughs, sweet and short, and the adrenaline fades, replaced by something lasting, and it catalogues itself somewhere in-between _oh my god wow_ and _oh my god no._

"Why did you enter the firing zone anyway? Isn't it quicker to Bowler's Fantasy round the _other_ side?" (The unfortunately named 'Bowler's Fantasy' was what you had previously called 'The cramped stinky booth where people yell at you'. You preferred the latter.) He went to slam dunk his empty drink into a nearby customer trash can, but paused and turned to you knowingly - offering his cup to you with a shake, rattling the ice still inside.

You take it with a little kind smile and place it gently on your bump, tensing – a sigh escapes, a release, a sarcastic puff of hot air.

"I've been offered _'an employment opportunity in the textiles department'_. Wherever that is."

"Well, you've arrived!" Shoe Guy piped up again after a penitent silence, with a wide sweep of the blocky half sheltered desk of his and Arin's habitat - "Mi casa es su casa, dude."

Okay. Today has been a long day. You decided to make a mental list, because no one can hit you in the head with a mental list.

You became a stalker (sort of)

You lost your job.

You got a new job! (with a sweet $5 raise)

You were almost killed with a large metal-tipped murder boot.

You met Grumpy streak guy and Not So Grumpy Shoe Guy.

You were now working together for the foreseeable future.

"C'mon, I'll show you where the magic happens.." quipped Arin, casually flipping up the panel on the desk and sliding through to lean suggestively on a shoe shelf. (The shoe booth can easily fit 4 people with space to spare, which is like a damn palace compared to you crappy booth)

"By magic, you mean Shoe magic? Dude, colour me intrigued.." You slide through as well, still pressing Arin's now half-melted ice cup to your bump. You were getting the hang of things. It felt natural, to be cracking dumb jokes among the used bowling shoes and various kinds of disinfectant with names like _Funky Freshalicious!_ And _Sayonara Stink!_ with some intense looking Japanese printed under it.

Arin nonchalantly wanders to the small hidden corner of the Shoe Booth, catching Shoe Guy's eyes for split second and raising his eyebrows as he strides through the shoe counter.

Shoe Guy then splays his arms wide, spinning in a tight circle.

"Welcome to the the Sexatorium! The ladies flock likes bees to honey, dude! It's a natural phenomenon, like the Bermuda Triangle. Its up there."

A laugh jumps out your throat and you let it carry you. It feels good, new but familiar.

"Dude, that is the lamest thing I have ever heard."

"Just wait and see."

He winks directly at you and you avert your gaze to avoid simultaneous combustion, bravely saving the lives of a few passionate bowlers in the process.

"Uh yeah, I'm Danny! Most people can me Dan. Or Galactic President."

He reached out a hand, pleased and optimistic. You smiled as if you were stifling a laugh, more of an urge than a thing willed.

No more Shoe Guy. Now it was Dan, an actual name. Huh. You liked the way the letters fit and the shape they formed on your tongue, short and content.

You took his hand in your own, an echo of the generous minute of accidental hand-holding of before. You pushed the embarrassed shiver down, and focused on the way it felt now, warm and innocent with a pleasant weight, heat and safety.

"Hey, Galactic President Dan, I'm (Y/N). Most people call me (Y/N)."

He laughed at that, a small chuckle, but still a laugh nonetheless, and for a few seconds the only action your brain deemed as necessary for functioning was cataloguing that laugh for later recollection.

A few moments of silence filled with the warmth of great happiness condensed into small smiles and shy eyes.

Oh, man. This was going to be interesting.


End file.
